


Into the Woods

by catcusxx



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Inspiration, Old school friends, Rain, chance encounter, descriptive, past trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2020-01-12 00:50:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18435614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catcusxx/pseuds/catcusxx
Summary: A writer lacking inspiration decides to go tramping. A boy who needs silence decides to escape.In which two almost strangers meet again.(Ik this site wasn't made for original works but I wanted to put this somewhere so enjoy





	Into the Woods

Cylla had liked the rain at first. She liked the constant pitter patter of the water on the canopy. She marvelled at the way each droplet clung to the mossy carpet. She loved the way it made her feel most of all.   
At first the downpour had felt as if it was wiping the slate clean. The smell of petrichor brought memories to her, flitting at the edge of her mind like moths in the dusk. The wild inspired her, and the rain made inspiration flood in. It made her look at things from a new angle and for the first time since she'd signed the deal, she wanted to create.  
But that was only at the start.   
Now she was shivering. The water no longer clung to the moss, it blanketed her. She could feel the damp at the collar and cuffs of her coat, slowly working it's way inwards. The water was icy on her face and her teeth chattered. Now her mind was as slow as her body. She stumbled and then righted herself.  
(At least she was staying at hut and not a tent, she reasoned)   
Cylla looked up and felt vertigo overcome her as she watched the rain pelt down from the endless sky. Then rivulets of water began worming their way down her neck and she hunkered down.   
(Not much further, surely.)  
The sound of running water could just barely be heard over the rain. Cylla inwardly groaned as the track lead her to the noise. At first she'd loved the crossings. The streams were small and it was easy to avoid getting wet. It was fun, hopping from bolder to bolder on the larger ones, although the river slime made some of them dodgy.   
(The river crossings would be hell on the way back.)  
And then Cylla emerged onto the flats and out of the dense, green, woodlands. Suddenly she was in a world of golden tussock, hemmed in by the upwards slopes of the valley, still blanketed in trees. She could hear very little bird song, but perhaps the rain masked it.   
(Or the birds had a better sense of self-preservation than Cylla)   
The wind ripped down the centre of the valley. Normally she would lean into it and let it support her, but her pack would over balance her now. She liked to face the wind. It whisked away her inhibitions and she felt like she could fly. She tried this, to gather her strength. She opened her mouth a little and felt her breath being torn away, leaving her winded and joyful.   
But the wind chilled her damp skin and soon she was shivering so hard her teeth chattered. Once her braces would have scraped her teeth, steel against enamel, but now the click of her teeth was quiet and insistent.  
Each step was a hazard as the tussock made for treacherous ground full of holes. The bushes scratched her legs raw and when she grabbed one to keep herself stable her hands were cut open. She clenched her fists and the blood was diluted by the rain water.  
And then she saw the hut - a welcome sight for sure. It was painted cream with a red front porch and water tank to one side. There was even glass in the windows. Cylla wiped her bloody hands on her shorts, biting her numb lip to stop the shaking. The skin at the edges of her cuts ripped some more and the pale edges stuck out. She opened the door gingerly and stepped inside. It was cold, but she'd soon fix that. Then, she realised she had company.  
-  
Charlie hadn't enjoyed the walk or the rain. He was the kind of person who enjoyed the being there, and not the getting there. In life, the getting there had been getting him down. He'd chosen a more achievable goal, and for the last half day he'd been lying on the decrepit bunks and listening to the patter of rain on the tin roof.   
It was so loud and he was sure he could hear the roof leaking; every once in a while there would come the plop of water hitting the stone floor. He didn't mind, not really. He was alone and he was free. Recently the two had seemed one and the same.   
And suddenly, he wasn't alone anymore.   
Someone stumbled inside the cabin - he heard the door slam open and the squish of wet boots on the stone. He sat up and padded to the door in his socks, eyeing the intruder despondently. Who else would do a twelve hour walk in winter? In the rain?  
The intruder dumped their bag by the door and shucked their jacket and shoes. Charlie realised they - she, was shaking violently.   
"Jesus it's c-c-c-cold." She said, her shivering making her stutter. Her damp hair was plastered to her face. It was difficult to tell what colour it was - a light brown or even blonde maybe, but the water had stained it dark.   
"It is winter." He said.   
She looked up at him through steely hazel eyes. "No kidding." She said. "C-c-can you light a fire?" She said through chattering teeth.   
Charlie stole a glance at the fire place, and then the matches. Her felt a shiver which had nothing to do with the cold run through him. His eyes fell on her again, however, and he realised her lips had a blue tinge to them.   
"I - look, my sleeping bag's warm. It'll be quicker." He brought it out and she looked around.   
The inside of the hut was small, with a minute pot-belly stove at the end. There were two rooms going off it, both with three metal bunks, painted with peeling red paint. The box beside the pot-belly was filled with wood, but she took the bag and huddled inside.  
It felt strange to feel something warm around her after only the cold for so long. She was drowsy, and she peered at the man who'd given her the sleeping back out from under water spattered lashes. There was something familiar...  
"Been here long?" She asked, her voice croaky.   
The man shrugged, "arrived this morning."   
"Oh." There was a pause. The rain on the roof seemed deafening. "What's your name?" She asked finally.   
"Charlie."   
Recognition overcame her and she grinned, showing perfectly straight, white teeth. "Ashmont?"  
"Yeah?" He said. She saw apprehension dawn over his face and she wondered if she should continue. It was no wonder he hadn't recognized her, but although she couldn't put her finger on whatever it was that was different, he had barely changed in the three years since she'd last seen him. (Spoiler, difference is he's sad).   
"We were school mates."   
"I don't recognize you." He said, his eyes glued to her now.   
She felt a tinge of red cross her cheeks as she remembered her high school years. She reminded herself she was an adult now, and sharing a cabin with a guy was nothing to blush over.   
"Cylla Little."   
"Oh." He said, and then, "Ohhh, wait, I remember... You've... Glowed up."   
Cylla shrugged, "yeah, I get that a lot."   
"It's not a bad thing." He reasons.  
"Except it means I was ugly before," she said, but with no bitterness. Instead she pulled the sleeping bag up around her chin and exhaled, watching as her breaths misted out in front of her. "Look, do you mind if I made a fire?" She asked, rubbing her hands together inside the bag.  
"Yeah. I mean, go for it." He said. "It's fine."   
The look in his eyes said otherwise, and Cylla debated staying where she is, but all her gear was wet and Charlie probably wanted his sleeping bag back.   
Cylla wriggled out of it and begun laying the fire. She didn't miss the way he brought his bag back into his room. She guessed he'd wanted to be alone.   
Charlie laid his sleeping bag back out, hoping the damp would be gone by the time he got in. He remembered Cylla. He remembered catching glimpses of her braids, disappearing around the corner, and following her, just once, because the words of his friends had been a little harsh; he had been a little harsh. He'd found her hunkered down, her red rimmed eyes large in her small pale face. She glared when she saw him, her face full of fire. It wasn't the face of a victim.   
He'd left her alone after that.  
Cylla didn't mind him leaving, content to watch the fire crackle and pop. She could sit and listen to it for the whole night as she basked in it's warmth. But she was here for a reason, she reminded herself, before jolting into action. She pulled out her gear and laid it to dry, searching in her pack until she came up with a packet of candles and a note book.  
Charlie had eased the door shut, so she figured the middle room was all hers. She'd rather be out where it was warm.  
She lit the candles and watched the tiny spires of smoke curl up to the ceiling, the scent mixed in with vanilla. Vanilla and wood smoke were a good combination, she mused as she clicked her pen and stared down at the blank pages.  
She had to finish the book but writing had become such a chore. It's become something for someone else and Cylla hated it. So she figured perhaps she should start with something else. Something small, just to get herself into 'the zone'. She had no idea where that really was anymore, but perhaps she could get a sentence down, and see where that brought her.  
Inhaling deeply, Cylla began to write. The words were so easy because they were hers, actually hers. The ink began to fill the page as she wrote of her day and only her day. She remembered doing the same thing in primary school, except now the words didn't simply recount the events.  
Things were so much more than events. Days were made of people and interwoven with colours and voices and expression. When it all boiled down to it, it was the feelings Cylla immersed herself in. That day the filigree of delicate green moss and sparkling water droplets and the tentative sun peeking out from behind the silver cotton clouds had made her feel, and god, the feelings which stemmed from the beautiful symphony of greens and browns and silvery greys were easy to get lost in.   
The breath Cylla had inhaled left her and the tension from weeks of trying and failing to get so much as a sentence she was happy with left her all at once.  
-  
Charlie had shut the door regretfully, but breathed a sigh of relief once the flickering firelight was barred from the room. The shapes of the bunks, all of them empty apart from his, were illuminated again by the harsh blue light of his headtorch. Running a hand through his hair, Charlie slumped down on his bed.  
He hadn't expected to see Cylla here. He hadn't expected to see anyone. Hadn't wanted to either. He wanted to be strong and self-assured and emotionless, because looking happy was too much of a stretch. He couldn't do that while asleep because when he was asleep he was vulnerable.   
Not to Cylla, not really. It was the memories he was worried about. They never replayed exactly when he slept. Things were always slightly different. His parents hadn't really been there. His brother hadn't accused him of murder. Sometimes he dreamed of neither, but the fire was always there.  
Things became surreal from the moment he drifted to sleep. Even though there was no sign of the fire in the main room, he smelt the smoke.  
His sleeping bag was wrapped too tightly around him. The fabric was stuck to his skin and he was burning. He was freezing. He couldn't breathe. Tangled and struggling desperately he rolled out of the bed. He hit the floor with a thump which jarred his skull. And still the dream was vivid and the flames danced in his minds eye. He needed water to quench his thirst and dampen down the flames.   
He fumbled with the door handle and stumbled towards where he knew his water would be. He could smell smoke and desperately he pulled open his bottle and gulped water down. He could feel streams of water running down his neck and joining the sweat around his collar.   
There was movement behind him, and he spun around, panic biting at his chest when he realized the flames were very real and that they were creeping across the floor towards him.   
"Charlie?" Came a soft voice.   
(not this)   
But the water was real, and so were the flames. Slowly the scene began to make sense. His heart rate slowed. It was only Cylla. She wasn't calling for help. She wasn't in the flames. It was okay.   
"Um, hi." He said. His voice was scratchy and his throat was dry despite the water.   
Cylla was blinking tiredly, although she didn't look like she'd been asleep. She was stretched out languidly in front of the fire. She'd shucked her outer layers and the firelight made her skin shine.  
"You good?" She asked, tapping a pen absently against her skin.   
"Yeah." He said shortly.   
Cylla yawned widely and then sat up, curling her legs in front of her.  
"Wanna sit?"   
He eyed the fire and then her, before easing himself into the space nearby. She was surrounded by candles which lit things with a mellow light. He hoped it was too dark to see the sweat or the remnants of fear still on his face, but Cylla appeared not to be paying attention.   
She was writing and the scratch of pen on paper mingled with the gentle crackle of the fire. A crackle, not a roar, he reminded himself.  
He studied her out of the corner of his eyes, making out the sharp angles of her cheek bones and sheen of her skin, tan in winter. It was easy to see that the years had certainly been kind to her. Even her acne scars had cleared. He found himself staring at her outright. She seemed not to notice him at all. It wasn't just her looks which had changed. It was her entire demeanour. She was confident, self-assured, even.   
Before she'd been chubby, with acne dotting her face. It wasn't even that which made her a target really, it was the way she held her self, like she knew people thought she was ugly. It was that very, non-threatening, demur, which meant that people had probably told her so.  
He could still see her flaws. There were small white scars crisscrossing her skin in places - the kind from everyday wear. There were patches of pale skin snowflaking out from around her elbows from a recent sunburn. Her fingernails were chipped and a fine line of dirt ran underneath them. None of this did anything to diminish the fact that she was confident and even attractive.   
Then she stretched, raising her arms above her head, extending her legs in front of her, and tensing until she shook. One of her feet knocked over a candle and Charlie froze as the flame licked the carpet. He could already see the way the flame would climb the carpet and scorch the walls, but Cylla leaned forward and caught the candle before any real damage could be done.  
To the floor at least. A hiss of pain whistled from between clenched teeth as hot wax spilled over her skin. Her jaw relaxed as she watched the wax spread over her skin in a cobwebbing pattern, turning white as it hardened.   
"Aren't you gonna-" His voice gave out and he took another sip of water before starting again, "aren't you gonna run your hand under water or something?" He asked, reaching for his bottle.   
Cylla shrugged, watching the wax unconcernedly, "it's all good. Besides, it might scar."   
"You want it to scar?" Charlie asked incredulously.   
"I love scars. Natures tattoos."  
"You could just... Get tattoos?" He suggested.   
Cylla grinned and sat up straight, pulling her shirt up to reveal a strip of midriff adorned with a minimalist tattoo of the moon and stars on one side.  
"You should still be careful," he says, tearing his eyes away and looking at her hand.   
Cylla grins, "School camp, when we were fifteen."   
"What?" He knew she was trying to make a point, but he was still woozy.�"You rolled down the scree slope. You climbed that cliff with no rope. You stripped down on that bridge so you could flash the rafting team and smuggled vodka into camp. Why are you telling me to be careful?" She asked, nudging him. It was a strange, overly familiar gesture.   
"Maybe I've changed?" Charlie suggested as memories of a deliciously simple time came flooding back.   
Cylla shut her book with a snap and tucked her pen into her hair. "What changed you?" She asked. She didn't need to see the storm of emotion which crossed his face. Instead, she blew out the candles. It was always easier to talk in the dark.   
There was a long pause. The fire had died down to embers, and the glow from them was faint. He heard the rustle of Cylla shrugging her jacket back on.   
"My brother. He was... He... He's dead." Charlie finally got out. Then he clamped his mouth shut because he didn't want to talk about it. He hadn't meant to say a word, and yet to this familiar stranger...   
Cylla shuffled over to him and gingerly leaned against him. She felt him stiffen and then put his arms around her. It had been the 'was' in his admission that caught her attention.   
'Is' and 'was' were two remarkably similar words, with only a few letters of difference, yet they spoke of a world of change. 'Is' spoke of something ever-present and under valued. 'Was' spoke of something gone forever. Something that 'is' is spoken of indifferently. Something that was is spoken of with pain, regret, or anger.   
Cylla could hear all three emotions in his voice. A potent cocktail which made him shake and his fists clench. She placed her head against his shoulder, trying to offer him comfort. She could just hear his intake of breath of the ever-present rain. He took what she offered and rested his own head on hers.   
"He was..." Charlie swallowed. Cylla could feel his adams apple bob against her cheek. "We locked him in his room because we thought he'd be safer there... It was my birthday. There was going to be alcohol and he never liked that. So we locked him there for the night to get him... Keep him... Keep him safe."   
From his broken sentences Cylla realized the 'is' of Lyall Ashmont. Taken for granted. A mere annoyance. She remembered him vaguely as well. He'd been a year older than Charlie, but with down-syndrome, so the two had started high school together. She ran gentle fingers down Charlie's spine.   
"There was a fire... An electrical fault. It was late at night, my Dad was abroad, my Mum at her house... Someone called the police and they asked if everyone was accounted for and I looked at the people who'd turned up and I said yes and he was still up there. No one even... Until the..." He broke of altogether and was silent for several minutes before he continued on a different line of thought, "The flames are always in my mind. It's been so long and I just can't..."   
"You never will." She said softly, but not unkindly. "It gets better though."   
She thought of her own is and was. The Cylla from high school had been down trodden. She'd been scared. It had taken her years to overcome the self-hatred and really see herself as she could be. The bitterness had never settled with her. She wondered if it would for him.   
"How can it get better? Ever?" He asked. The question might have sounded accusatory if his voice wasn't so soft and dull. Instead iy was as if he were hoping for her to reassure her but knowing that nothing she said would ever, ever, fix things.   
"You'll get better." She said simply.   
In the dark she could be anyone, but no one had given him these answers before.   
"You might've been a bad brother." Sky said, "but you aren't a bad person. Lyall loved you."   
It wasn't her place to say any of this, just as it hadn't been his, to criticize her all those years ago, but her words were spoken with kindness. A simple truth.   
He wasn't a bad person any longer, and he'd paid for his wrongdoings in full.   
The room was now almost pitch black. The rain still fell, pattering rather than pouring now. The embers gave off faint whispers of heat, but the ash obscured the light.   
Charlie was silent, because he didn't know where to go from there. There was nothing more to say, really. Cylla did not seem to expect an answer. It was some time later, as he sat beside the fire, now cold, when he realised she was asleep on his shoulder, her hair still damp and her hands, which loosely gripped his shoulder, were cold. He covered them with one of his own and until morning, just breathed.   
The streams and rivers in the area were high now. Cylla could hear the one nearest to the cabin roaring through the early morning silence.   
A sound which jarred her even more was the slow, gentle breathing of the man beside her.   
This was a moment to write about, she thought. It was so completely and utterly peaceful, and the expression on his face mirrored the calm sky outside.   
The rain had stopped.   
-  
The two of them would be in that cabin together for two more days. Two days of camping food cooked over the little old fire place, which smoked more and more as they brought in wet wood once the dry stuff had run out. Two days of quiet. A peaceful quiet, where Cylla watched Charlie in wonder; watched the person he was becoming as he waded out from all that pain, and Charlie watched the person Cylla had become, after shaking off her doubts like rain from feathers.   
Perhaps, he thought, nose tucked into the crook of her neck, perhaps wood smoke would be her smell eventually. Wood smoke and vanilla.  
Perhaps, she thought, she would call him with the number he'd scrawled in the back of her notebook, even after they parted ways.


End file.
